


Other Castles

by CheshireGrinn (orphan_account)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Captain Swan - Freeform, F/M, Family Feels, Feels, Fluff, Light Angst, Snowing - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 16:46:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4927366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/CheshireGrinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snow White takes a rare, quiet moment to muse on what might have been, and what is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Other Castles

**Author's Note:**

> Random thought that hit me while stalking through the Captain Swan/OUaT tags on Tumblr. But thanks for having a look!

Snow leans over Neal's crib, checks on her peacefully-slumbering baby boy, and remembers another nursery in another land. This nursery of her mind is much grander than an empty corner of a loft apartment, possibly as big as the entire bottom floor of their current humble abode. The walls are round, the room circular, not the straight, practical lines of this world.

That's all she knows for sure, all she truly remembers. She believes she remembers, but it's been so long she can't truly be sure. She remembers big windows, to let the sun in, to allow moonbeams to filter through. The thinks of heavy, antique furniture, a sturdy crib. There are bright, geometric shapes painted on creamy walls, spiraling across the floor. She remembers knickknacks, toys scattered about on ornately carved shelves. There will always be the unicorn mobile, that she loves and hates in turns. 

But she does, without any pause or second-guessing, remember the thick, red velvet curtains that hung alongside wispy, white ones. She remembers them because she thought them odd at the time; the rest of the room was awash with light, pastel colors, and red wasn't a color that typically lent itself to little princesses.

Ever since she knew, she imagined tiny pink gowns, perhaps mint green rompers, maybe even sky blue dresses. She dreams of a pale yellow riding outfit, when the girl is old enough, of lavender slips for sleeping. She thinks of dozens of colors, but never once red.

Now, she wonders why she didn't. Emma blew into town in her yellow Bug, with her red leather jacket, and that's it. She tries to imagine her daughter, this woman, in a pale pink ballgown, or a flowing, pale coral number, but it just doesn't seem right. 

She's lost 28 years, and that's all there is to say. There are first words, first steps, innumerable such things that she'll never get to know. Very likely, from what she's been told of the foster system in this world, no one knows those things. Whoever had the chance, the blessing, to hear them, see them, probably didn't care enough to remember those special moments.

But there are things she can enjoy, here and now. Emma is fierce and strong, humble and noble, and Snow knows that is a product of her parents, even if it was sculpted by the world, the situation she was thrust in to. But to watch Emma and David side-by-side, working and investigating, just talking, is to watch a study of familiars. She wonders if they have any idea that they make the same faces, that when they rush into the next disaster, they fall into step, the same foot hitting the sidewalk. Their hair is the same shade of gold, the shape of their eyes, their noses, very similar, and Emma's build favors David's far more than hers.

She can see bits of herself in Emma—the jawline, her lips—but those do not interest her. She can look at those features any time she wishes. To see love personified, given form, a child half David and half her, is something nearly beyond her ability to fathom.

If she really thinks about it, people remind her of colors. Regina makes her think of a deep, rich wine. David is the color of a clear, cloudless sky. Baby Neal is pale yellow, a diffused sunbeam. Henry is an earthy, chocolate mahogany. 

But Emma...Emma is red. It depends on the day, the red changes. Sometimes she's deep crimson, angry and ruthless. Sometimes pale cinnabar, when she's smiling and happy. Most of the time, when she's determined and refuses to fail, she is blood red. Emma is red. Emma is passion incarnate. She feels deeply, tries to block out those feelings with equal intensity. That's not a trait that can be blamed on David; a tender heart, too big for the cage of her ribs, is entirely Snow's fault.

Now, in rare moments that Snow had to daydream, she thinks of Emma in gowns of red. They don't have the full, voluminous skirts that most of her did. Instead, they have long, slim profiles, are sleek and simple. She thinks of a riding outfit, mostly smoke gray, from boots and breeches to shirt, but a vest of leather the color of flames. She sees a queen that rides into battle, refuses to make her men do anything she wouldn't. 

She dreams of banners with a gray swan on a red field.

More often than not, these days, thoughts of Emma lead her to thoughts of someone else. Hook—Killian is never far behind anymore, a shadow of Emma's heels. For that, Snow is eternally grateful. Someone is fighting her daughter, refusing to obey her wishes to be left alone, confronting her fears of abandonment. Killian makes her think of deep, blue seas just as much as she thinks of a dark night. He might've gotten an updated wardrobe, but its still mostly muted colors, mostly black.

She knows it's more preference, habit than anything, but she wonders if it's something else. That maybe, just maybe, Killian keeps himself dark to allow Emma to shine, her fire unobstructed.

When she knew it would be a girl, that she would have a daughter, she imagined princes lining up from all reaches of the world. Rich, handsome, talented, but above all else, she prayed her daughter would choose the one with the kind heart, the one with so much love to give. 

Never once, she thinks wryly, did she even contemplate the possibility of a pirate. 

Snow supposes, with a smile, she'll just have to be satisfied, content, that he has a kind heart, and so, so much love to give.

The truck putters up against the curb, and Snow steps away from the window, lets the curtain fall back into place. That's enough dreaming for today. Their life is not a dream, nor a fairy tale, and Snow would change things if she could. She has regrets; she's only human.

But, she supposes, the life she has, they have, Emma has, could be far worse. After all, they have each other.


End file.
